The family story is about my great-aunt Zofia who lived in a wooden hut with hand-painted roses. She came from a large family and was the half-sister of my grandfather - the eleventh child. In this history there was a displacement, a discord. Another relationship and a new child disrupt certain order. All the brothers are stepbrothers and a cousin who should be the same age is about to die. Some roles and relations are distorted. Just like the names of the functions in each family. Father eventually becomes a grandfather, a woman becomes a mother. Language responds to this state of things. Words take a journey and the rose is red. Trails blurre, memories fade. In the absence of evidence a language repetition becomes the only possible (because the only real) content. The rose fades. It remains to repeat stubbornly Zofia is Zofia, roses are roses and the story is just a story. I do not get the answers to the question who Zofia was and whether the story with roses is true. The rose finally blooms blue.